


On Making the Perfect Soufflé by Oliver Queen

by CJ_fics



Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: F/M, established olicity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 01:32:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4768514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CJ_fics/pseuds/CJ_fics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver Queen loves Felicity Smoak. Felicity Smoak loves soufflés – and Oliver Queen, of course. Oliver attempts to make the perfect soufflé for Felicity.</p>
<p>Inspired by the latest Arrow Season 4 trailer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Making the Perfect Soufflé by Oliver Queen

The first time Oliver tried to make a soufflé for Felicity, the damned thing didn’t even rise!

Felicity had fallen in love with sweet cheese and vanilla soufflé served at Madame Leroux, a French bistro in Coast City. Seeing how much she enjoyed it – with the moaning, the closed eyes, the ecstatic look on her face that reminded Oliver of less PG-rated times, which turned him on, of course – Oliver vowed to learn how to make it.

He wanted to be the only one to be able to put that expression on her face, dammit. Also, he had fantasies of her eating a soufflé with the same look, and then following it up by making the look more intense with actual foreplay and frick-frack. He wanted to please her taste buds and her tummy before pleasing the rest of her.

Because, really, pleasing Felicity, making her happy, had become his top priority in life – and nothing made him happier.

So, he got online and researched soufflé recipes and baking tips. He really thought he had this one in the bag.

Until the first failed attempt, then the second (the damned thing burst all over the oven!), and the third (it collapsed like popped balloon even before he got to take it of the oven!).

Felicity, being her wonderful self that made Oliver fall in love with her all over again, took his soufflé disasters in stride, eating the damned failures with a giddy smile on her face, and assuring him that they still tasted amazing. She would always tell him that fact that he made the effort because he wanted to make her happy was more than enough for her.

The only positive thing that Oliver could take from his soufflé failures was that every time he attempted to make Felicity the dish, no matter the results, he was still rewarded by an appreciative, happy and very, very willing to comfort him for his failures in the bedroom (or the kitchen counter, or the couch). At least, he had that.

But that wasn’t enough for Oliver. He wanted to be more than “more than good enough” for Felicity. He wanted to give her the best – of himself, of the world. And that included being able to make her the best soufflé she had ever tasted, consistently and whenever she wanted it.

After his third attempt, he knew he needed help. The professional kind. So, he made his way back to Madame Le Roux. He was planning on begging and / or bribing the chef to teach him to make the perfect soufflé.

The bell by the door rings as he opens the door to Madame Le Roux.

“Welcome, Monsieur,” the maitre’d greets as Oliver enters the tiny restaurant, “Table for how many?”

“I was wishing to speak to the head chef,” Oliver responds, “About the soufflé.”

The older man frowns and flashes Oliver a confused look, “Is there a problem?”

“No,” Oliver assures him, “I’ve eaten here before –”

“Of course, Mr. Queen,” the man responds, “We thank you for your patronage.”

“Yes,” Oliver nods, “You see, my girlfriend, she really loves the cheese and vanilla soufflé you serve here. And I was wondering, if I could ask the chef to teach me how to make it. Because I want to cook it for her – it will make her happy. And–”

“The recipe for that is not for the public. All my recipes are mine,” a female voice, heavily-accented with French, calls out harshly from the doorway to the kitchen, “You go now.”

Oliver turns to see a tall, rail-thin black woman with short salt and pepper hair standing by the kitchen doorway, dressed in a chef’s jacket, her arms held folded across her chest. She had a scowl on her face.

“Madame Le Roux,” the maitre’d mutters hesitantly, “I was just–”

“It’s not your fault, Sydney,” she nods to the maitre’d dismissively before turning her attention back to Oliver, “You are not the first person who has tried to steal my recipes. And I do not tolerate such things.”

“Madame Le Roux,” Oliver gulps because frankly the woman was kind of intimidating – but he needed professional help, “I’m Oliver Queen –”

“I know who are you, Mr. Queen,” she interrupts him, “And, no.”

She turns to head back to the kitchen, Oliver follows after her, “I don’t want your recipe. I’ve already figured it out anyway. I just need to learn how to make the perfect soufflé.”

“You’ve figured out my recipe?” she faces him with a raised eyebrow.

“Yes,” Oliver says confidently, “Adding nutmeg enhances the cheese flavour which makes the vanilla sing.”

“How–” the lady looks affronted.

“Let’s just say that I’ve developed heightened senses over the years,” Oliver admits.

“Why?” Madame Le Roux asks curiously.

“Why what?”

“I don’t have time for this, Mr. Queen,” she says impatiently turning back to the kitchen.

“Felicity. Smoak. Felicity Smoak,” Oliver explains, “She’s always been indifferent to soufflés until she tasted yours. Now she loves them. And I want to be able to give her what she loves.”

“And who is Felicity Smoak?” Madame Le Roux asks, still turned towards the kitchen.

“My girlfriend. My partner. My future wife,” Oliver says earnestly.

“And you want to be able to cook soufflé for her,” she confirms.

“Yes, I’ve tried three times already,” Oliver says, “And all of them were disasters.”

“What happened to them?”

“The first one didn’t rise at all –”

“You didn’t use room temperature eggs,” the chef responds, “The second one?”

“It burst in the oven,” Oliver answers.

“You didn’t mix the bechamel with the meringue properly.”

“The third one deflated before I could take it out of the oven,” Oliver says.

“Your oven was too high, and you used too much flour in your bechamel,” she says, “Is that all?”

“I need professional help,” Oliver says.

“You need to use room temperature eggs, don’t use too much flour, and mix the soufflé batter better,” Madame Le Roux answers tersely, “Good day, Mr. Queen.”

“Can I come back, if I face other issues?” Oliver asks.

“You can try,” she says before walking towards the kitchen.

“I thought you were a dead man, for sure,” Sydney whispers to Oliver as soon as the chef was out hearing distance, “She’s very protective of her recipes.”

“As well she should be,” Oliver responds, “She cooks amazing food.”

——–

With a fresh bag of groceries and ready to make another attempt at making a soufflé, Oliver enters the home he and Felicity have made.

“Oliver?” Felicity calls out from the hallway leading to the bedrooms at the sound of the door shutting.

“Honey, I’m home,” Oliver announces with a smile. He always got a kick out of saying those words.

“Where were you?” she asks as she steps into the living room, a basket of laundry in her arms.

“At Madame Le Roux,” he says, walking towards her. He takes the basket of laundry from her arms before bending down to kiss her, “Hi.”

“Hey,” she smiles before meeting him halfway for a kiss, which quickly develops from a casual greeting to something way hotter – as it always happens when they kiss.

By the time they pull away from each other to catch their breaths, Felicity has her hands wrapped around Oliver’s neck and is on her tiptoes to press closer to him, and his hands are clutching her hips, practically bent by the waist to reach her better. The basket of laundry lay on its side on the floor.

She smiles against his lips, “What were you doing at Madame Le Roux? Grabbing dinner? It’s too early.”

“No,” he smiles back, nuzzling her face, wondering if he should surprise her with the perfect soufflé instead of telling her why he was at the restaurant. But he knows that he could never lie to her, he simply couldn’t and she could always tell when he tried. So he opts for the truth, “I needed help – the professional kind – to learn how to make your soufflé.”

“Oh, Oliver,” Felicity sighs happily, pulling away from him so she could look into his eyes, “You know I’d love it – I’d love _you_ – even if you never make me a soufflé, right? Or any food, for that matter.”

“I know,” he says, straightening his spine but keeping his hands on her hips, “It makes me want to try harder.”

Felicity chuckles as she tucks her face on his chest, “I think, I may be the luckiest person alive.”

“No, I am,” he responds lightly, moving his right hand to her nape to stroke the strands of hair there with his fingers and to pull her closer.

She smiles, but says nothing more, happy to be in his arms and to inhale his uniquely Oliver smell – a mix of lemon, musk, basil and grass. The smell of home. Her home.

——-

His fourth attempt fails, much to his frustration.

“It didn’t rise again,” he announces with a definite whine in his voice as he walks into the French bistro.

“You have over-beaten your egg whites!” Madame Le Roux calls back from the kitchen.

His fifth burst out from the ramekin.

“Put a foil collar or buy bigger ramekins!” Madame Le Roux suggests abruptly.

His sixth was almost perfect but it didn’t have the flat top that was key to a good soufflé.

“Level off the top with a knife!” Madame Le Roux shouts at him.

His seventh had lift but not enough.

“Use the bottom rack of your oven!” the chef suggests distractedly, busy with her mise en place.

His eight attempt was perfect.

He managed to create a textbook soufflé. But it collapsed before Felicity could try it. She was so happy at the sight of him satisfied with his perfect soufflé and the eager flourish with which he presented the dish to her, that she trapped his body against the kitchen counter and showed him how pleased she was with him.

They ate his eighth attempt at soufflé making, deflated but still delicious, in bed hours later.

His ninth attempt was more than perfect. He got to serve Felicity a fully-risen, piping hot soufflé, got to witness her moan and close her eyes as she tasted and gorged on it. Then, he got to follow that up with an extended foreplay session that preceded rounds of frick-frack. Just like in his fantasies.

The next day, he sends Madame Le Roux a “thank you note” with a box of cheese danish and crullers, and a bouquet of flowers that Felicity hand-picked from their garden.

/end

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Tumblr: http://outoftheclosetshipper.tumblr.com/post/128763980973/on-making-the-perfect-souffl%C3%A9-by-oliver-queen


End file.
